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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690530">the mother's curse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging'>chameleonchanging</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:27:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>845</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690530</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanks to the Force, Wolffe's General is 8 years old again. Now what?</p><p>Wolffe's so-done-with-this meter is about to break.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Plo Koon &amp; CC-3636 | Wolffe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>182</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the mother's curse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Plo, at the age of 8, had yet to hit his adolescent growth spurt and was much closer to 4’2” than his adult 6’2”. Wolffe has no reason to know this, except that he is at present faced with a squirmy, somewhat moody Kel Dor pre-teen who has been unceremoniously tackled by a full-grown clone trooper medic with a custom rebreather. Said child is drowning in his own robes and gesticulating wildly and indignantly with a lightsaber far too large for his hands, trying and failing to lever Catch off of him with muffled shouting.</p><p>Disconcertingly for Wolffe, he is possibly the most adorable thing Wolffe has ever seen. Not least of which because as recently as yesterday he had been plotting to persuade Plo to be wined, dined, and otherwise romanced, but also because they’re actively being shot at and now there’s Force-related bullshit to deal with too. </p><p>“What the fuck,” he says, crouched behind a pile of rubble and staring at his General, whose eyes have narrowed consideringly. “Don’t repeat that.”</p><p>“Fuck,” says 8-year-old Plo. Clearly he’d come by his contrarian disposition honestly, though the deep voice apparently took a little longer to develop. He bites down on the rebreather, shoves Catch’s hands away, and starts fiddling with his mask, which had slid off him around the time he had been encased in light. In short order the fit has been adjusted, and he attaches the mask to his face again. </p><p>“Are you hurt, sir?” Catch asks.</p><p>“Why are you calling me sir?” Plo asks back. “Why are my robes so big? Why is my <em>lightsaber</em> so big?” </p><p>“Oh ye little gods,” Catch says, as Plo proceeds to ask about their armor, buckets, and faces. “What are we going to do?”</p><p>“I have no idea,” says Wolffe. </p>
<hr/><p>The Quartermaster has at least managed to hem a set of blacks for Plo, though they still fit loosely on his lanky frame. He looks very out of place in camp following Wolffe around like a duckling, solemn and quiet now that he’s had a chance to regain his bearings. He hasn’t said anything about boredom or hunger, speaks only when spoken to, and stares at everyone and everything. He is, in fact, more unnerving now than he had been when he’d first been assigned to them with his infinite calm and good mood. </p><p>So Wolffe does the only thing he can think of: he calls Cody. Partly because for the last decade or so, his problem-solving algorithm has ended at “make it Cody’s problem”, but also because whenever Plo calls the Council, General Windu is suspiciously always the person on the receiving end who directs him to conference, and Wolffe is not about to dial the High General himself to say <em>your ad is ad-like again</em>. Cody, besides, has a direct line to General Kenobi, who will make an excellent messenger and second man in the two-man buffer Wolffe is building between himself and the recievers of bad news. </p><p>His comm rings and he activates it absently. He nearly faints when General Windu appears, looking very stern indeed. </p><p>“Commander Wolffe,” says the General.</p><p>“General Windu, sir,” says Wolffe weakly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “How did you get this number? Uh, I mean, how can I help you?”</p><p>“Have you seen Plo recently?” General Windu asks. He runs a hand over his very bald head, as though he had hair.</p><p>“I was just going to call you about that, actually,” Wolffe lies. “General Koon seems to have been . . . uh.”</p><p>“Reverted to chlldhood?” General Windu supplies. “Yes, I know. He just called me asking why he was ‘surrounded by five hundred identical Mandalorians in knock-off beskar’.”</p><p>Ouch. Wolffe peers out the tent flap, where Plo is trying to stuff a stolen communicator up his sleeve with minimal success. Apparently General Windu’s comm number hasn’t changed in the last however many decades. He turns back to the hologram.</p><p>“Sir, I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what happened,” says Wolffe.</p><p>“This really isn’t your fault,” says the General with a sigh. “Has he given any indication of where he is in his training? I don’t want him out there unless he’s at least Padawan-level. I think it goes without saying you won’t be taking orders from him for the duration.”</p><p>“No, sir,” says Wolffe. He wouldn’t know where to begin that kind of an assessment, and he’s trained with adult Plo enough to know his General was probably a preternaturally skilled fighter even in his youth. “He hasn’t said much, and we haven’t let him fight. I don’t think I’d want him out here regardless.”</p><p>General Windu gives him a knowing look. Wolffe doesn’t like it. “All right. Plo trusts your judgment, and so do I. Commander, may the Force be with you. You’re going to need it.”</p><p>Wolffe frowns. “Sir?” he says, meaning <em>what do you know that I don’t?</em></p><p>“Plo . . . mellowed out over the years,” says General Windu. “Good luck. And don’t let him talk you into letting him pilot any aircraft.”</p>
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